


My Ongoing Poetry

by AtaVictoria



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtaVictoria/pseuds/AtaVictoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my personal poetry, mostly sporadic and random things I come up with along the course of this road called life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Supernova

I know I need therapy  
But some things make me just as happy  
As speaking to a stranger  
To think, that millions of stars have died  
To create every fiber of my being  
And that, while many of these stars are long dead now  
Their light still reaches us  
And maybe, if I look up at night  
And think of all those dead stars of which I am now comprised  
Maybe I could love myself  
For just one more day.


	2. Hallelujah

God gave me a wonderful gift.  
His lips taste like heaven,  
His hands feel like being forgiven.  
Loving him is a blessing,  
Loving him must be right.  
I'll let out a hallelujah  
For the best thing  
That's yet to happen to me  
And I'll count my blessings  
Because loving him,  
I can love myself,  
And each day  
Is a precious gift.


	3. 6 Word Stories (Inspired by Ernest Hemingway)

No one read her suicide note.

People complained about the stained pavement.

He said that she deserved it.

Their drunk goodbyes became last goodbyes.

The sunshine woke her. He didn't.

Not even the alcohol could help.

Her cot was gone by noon.


	4. Carolina

I can't hate her  
Not after all the good memories we share  
Long nights on the dock  
Watermelon and fireworks  
Fish fries and weddings.

But how could I not hate her  
After all the bad times  
Last goodbyes in that old cabin  
Hurricanes and tempests  
Broken bones and broken hearts.

But maybe, just maybe  
I can find a part of her  
To find myself in  
And start again  
Because maybe  
The sad happenings  
Are what make her  
So beautiful.


	5. Murderer (Figment Prompt, 26/3/13)

I would never refer to myself as a murderer. But never once have I said that I would not kill a man.

I had never intended on it, honestly. But when my life and my choices were endangered, I had to do something.

And yet it still haunts me.

My hand dripping with blood, after a punch to the windpipe and temple with a keychain between my knuckles, and my breathing heavy: I had only done what I'd been told to do, had the situation arisen.

Why can I still see his face, that was once angry and unforgiving, sad and begging for life? The life he had taken advantage of, by taking advantage of others? Why can I feel his blood, warm and staining, still on my hands? Why, when no charges were filed, since it was self defence, do I feel so guilty?

I would never refer to myself as a murderer. But, oh my, do I feel like one.


	6. Unknown

I want to live somewhere where there are trains and trolleys.

I want to live somewhere where a few streets away is another world entirely.

I want to live somewhere where I can create and display without shame.

I want to live somewhere where no one knows my name.


	7. Summer Nights

Summer nights seem to come fast when you're alone.  
The fading orange sky begs for a sunset but goes straight  
To the nights darkening blue. I wonder  
How a summer night night comes when you fall in  
The passion pit they call "love".  
Does the sun's falling portrait start at noon  
And hide itself away at midnight,  
Just so two lovers could stay at each other's side?  
Does it strike the sky, as suddenly as lightening,  
And leave just as quickly, creating a scene  
That could only be heightened in beauty by being sealed  
With the sweet kiss of two soul mates' goodbyes?  
Or is it just a painting created in my ever youthful mind  
With thoughts of such a feeling that I can only pray exists?  
If such a day comes, I will keep it  
Locked away in many forms:  
Painted with the pure color of acrylic,  
Because the grey of graphite would not suffice.  
Photographed in beautiful tints  
And left in the eyes of that love,  
Hoping they never look away.  
Written in deep detail of the sight.  
Not in crumbling pencil, not in staining ink,  
But in blood, for it is the only thing human  
Enough and passionate enough to bring memory  
Of an evermore amazing sight,  
Burned into the minds of everyone  
Blessed with it.


End file.
